


Rules of Engagement

by osunism



Category: Black Panther (Comics), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6784486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He had become content in the knowledge that his father would pass in his old age, on Wakandan soil, content and surrounded by friends and family. It is something T’Challa has always expected, and in doing so, knows he was mourning his father long before he was gone.</i><br/> <br/>[ On hiatus until April 2018. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so happy to have found a legitimate and awesome reason to be writing for the MCU again. That being said, a few caveats: this story will mostly revolve around the OCs and Wakanda's shifting political arena post-Civil War (the film). For those who have not seen the film yet, there will be spoilers so be advised. Most if not all of the characters will be Black, more specifically, Nigerian or Wakandan. There will be Hausa and possibly Yoruba spoken (two languages I speak and understand being Nigerian myself), as it is canon that T'Challa speaks both...since Wakanda is mostly based on an amalgamation of Nigeria and the Zulu Nation. I'm going to try and do my best to set Wakanda apart as a nation.

The news is abuzz with the events of Berlin. Every channel is chattering about the state of the world. Experts, critics, celebrities, political pundits, and any blogger with the slightest bit of clout is debating the Sokovian Accords. The Internet is awash in hashtags, raw civilian footage, commentary all over YouTube, memes, and message board arguments as news of the prison break reaches the public.

They speak of nothing else, and by the time the week is over, she knows the Avengers by name, knows their faces as if she has met each of them in person. It is just as well, as their forward presence in this world has now put many political conflicts on the back burner, as humanity now wonders how to proceed with the revelation of this…quandary.

After the events in Lagos, the bond between Nigeria and Wakanda had been strengthened. There are murmurs of dissent of course, with detractors claiming that Wakanda’s notorious habit of sequestering themselves from the larger world has hurt Africa’s economy in several region. The country, centuries ahead of its time in virtually every STEM field save aeronautics, has always been reluctant to share its discoveries with the world.

Zainab has been tasked to find out if this intends to change.

As the ambassador, she is afforded many honorifics and privileges, and is also writing history. She is one of the first Nigerian representatives to set foot in the famed country, renown for its heavily protected and fortified borders. As the she boards the helicopter that will take her further in, she feels awash with excitement. She has met with foreign dignitaries before. Kings, despots, dictators, presidents, queens, and sundry. But she would be lying if she said that the King of Wakanda was another matter entirely. She goes over the points she wishes to address in her head, with plans to review when she is settled in her quarters within. The helicopter is surprisingly quiet, a marvel of Wakandan tech she cannot begin to fathom. She has been on many helos in her day, but always the ride is precarious and noisy. It is a rare thing for her to be able to hear anything aside from the endless _chuff-chuff_ of the helo’s blades, let alone her own thoughts.

They land on a helo-pad, touching down with barely a wobble. Zainab finds herself greeted by two women dressed sharply and unarmed. She has heard of these women, who are the King’s own bodyguards, fearsome warriors called the Dora Milaje, and fiercely loyal to the royal family. That they are unarmed is misleading, and Zainab knows the King has sent them to escort her both as a show of good faith, and a warning.

As if she could ever consider duplicity in her position.

The two women are much taller than she, their heads shaved, their make-up flawless, their expressions neutral. There’s a hardness in their eyes, however, that Zainab has only ever seen in soldiers who have seen battle. These women are not to be trifled with, and she keeps her body language as non-threatening as possible, relaxing her hands, evening out her breathing.

“You have nothing to fear,” one of them says casually, “the King sends his regards that he cannot greet you himself, but an urgent matter has called him outside of Wakanda for the time being. He is expected to return within the next day.” Zainab’s eyes go wide briefly, surprised.

“Well,” she says, searching for the appropriate words, “that is most unfortunate, but not entirely inconvenient. I take it the two of you are to give me a tour of where I will be staying?”

“Yes.” The other woman answers. Neither one of them have bothered to introduce themselves and Zainab cannot be sure if it is prudence or rudeness. She takes a gamble on the former. These women are soldiers first and individuals second.

“Very well, then,” Zainab says, “lead the way ladies.” She smiles warmly, but they do not smile back, walking almost in sync with one another. Zainab struggles to keep up with their lengthy strides, cursing herself for wearing heels.

* * *

Zainab finds that Wakanda’s surrounds is no different from home. The architecture is sleek, futuristic, but it moves with the landscape as oppose to overpowering it. Thick palms shroud buildings built right into the sides of mist-shrouded mountains, and date palms line the clean streets as she watches Wakandans go about their daily lives from behind the glass of the town car. Zainab is somewhat disappointed that the country does not scream its technological marvels in every piece of stone, concrete, and metal. The cars are the same imports as any other country: Mercedes, BMW, even Porsche. The buildings are cosmopolitan, and even the styles of dress are similar to home. She sighs, wistful.

So much for that.

The two bodyguards exchange a glance in the seat across from hers. One of them smiles harshly, chuckling. Zainab knows they are amused, but she says nothing as they exchange words in Hausa, which she understands fluently.

“ _Menene ta jira_?” One says, “ _Yawo_ _motocin_? ”

“ _Ka sani cikin labarun duniya na da game da mu. Shi ne kawai da muka kore duka. Wata kila za su daina rokon mu ga fasaha_?”

Zainab wants to chime in but decides against it. She knows they’re right. It is just as well to dispel the outrageous rumors that surround the legend of Wakanda. It is an ordinary country like any other.

That sits atop the largest deposit of vibranium in the world and boasts one of the most powerful meta-humans seen in the last four years since the Avengers made themselves public.

Zainab does not expect flying cars in Wakanda, no, but she does expect _something_.

The city falls away behind them as they drive through the heavily forested road that winds up through the mountains, curving along the face, toward the palace. Zainab watches the heavy foliage pass by, and reaches for the complimentary glass of champagne provided. She sips out of politeness, sets the glass in the holder, and does not deign to touch it again.

The car rounds another bend, and the road opens up. The two bodyguards allow themselves smug grins as Zainab gasps, taken aback at the sight before her.

Nigeria has palaces within its demesne. The Emir’s palace in Zaria is one of the most famous, the Afegbua palace in Okpella, the King’s palace in Osogbo…all of them are historical and architectural works of art and symbols of power in each region they occupy.

But Zainab has never seen anything on the scale of the Palace of Wakanda save in picture books, usually with the caption “Hanging Gardens of Babylon” and other such legendary names beneath them. She stares in shock at the way the palace seems carved from the very mountain, and yet it is white—stark white—as white as the clouds fluffed in the sky. There are balconies, breezeways, elegant arches, and everywhere guards dressed in the royal colors, armed and dangerous.

Zainab releases a breath she is unaware she’s been holding.

“ _Wallahi_ …” She whispers. It is all she can manage for now, for there are no words that can encompass the elegant extravagance of the place.

The car comes to a halt, and Zainab is compelled to school herself to calm. She is here as a foreign dignitary—the Ambassador—not as some gawking tourist, and so she will conduct herself accordingly. As she is escorted inside the pristine halls, she is greeted by servants and other nobility alike. Led by the King’s own personal honor guard, she knows that she is being accorded a lofty if rather dubious honor. Her suite of rooms alone is a testament of what to expect. Elegant, like the rest of the architecture, yet with that touch of something that denotes no one actually lives in this room. It feels very much like guest chambers, where most of the decor is for seeing and not touching.

“Should you have need of anything,” one of the guards say, “you need only signal the servants on the communicator on the office desk and they will attend.”

Zainab turns.

“When can I expect His Majesty to grant me an audience?” She asks. The guard smirks.

“He already has. You need only wait until his return to attend.”

The guards leave her, and servants, as quiet and unobtrusive as specters, have already brought her belongings and sorted them out for the duration of her stay. Zainab is alone with her thoughts, and she takes this time now to peruse the suite from the spacious and inviting living room, to the sumptuous and decadent bedroom, and the bathroom, with its delicate marble floors, deep tub, and glass-panel shower. There is a balcony that overlooks the valley, and she can see the city sprawled below. Normally, cities look like scabs upon the earth to her from this vantage point, but Wakanda has managed to achieve a certain unity with its surrounds, weaving man-made with the earth’s own creations. The city is not a scab at all, but like the earth’s own skin. A cool breeze chills her and she hugs her arms. If she is to be left to her own devices, she will be left in comfort, at least.

Zainab runs a bath, grateful to be out of her heels, shed of her stockings, of the itchy Chanel suit, unpinning her braids and letting them fall down her back. She pours epsom salt into the tub, and takes her lavender oil from her suitcase to add to the water, softening it. In the tub, she soaks, and thinks on how best to approach the delicate matters her country has charged her with.

She is making history. Nigeria rarely sends its women to do what it feels its men are naturally inclined to do, but after the King has turned away so many petitions for an audience, it is providence or happenstance that has seen her landed with such a monumental opportunity. Zainab thinks of all she has done to achieve this lofty position, all she has sacrificed for herself, and for her son. She thinks of all who have stood in her way, who have tried to stop her. The steam rises around her and she breathes deep the relaxing scent of the lavender. When she exhales, all of the negative weight of her past goes with it.

She is here, now, and she must focus on that truth.

When she finishes her bath, she dons a fluffy white robe and begins the process of setting up her office space. Her laptop, her phone, her tablet, and the assorted chargers. When she checks her phone, she sees a few texts from her son, Ahmad, wondering if she reached Wakanda safely. In lieu of texting back, Zainab waits for her computer to boot up and opens Skype. There, she calls Ahmad.

“Mama!” His picture is slightly grainy and choppy as he moves. He’s still wearing his school uniform and Zainab has to remember the time difference. He’s just gotten home.

“Ahmad,” she says in her soft voice, “how are you? Am I disturbing you?” Her son smiles and it’s as if a thousand suns have risen at once all over the galaxy. Zainab’s heart leaps. She misses him dearly. She hopes her business in Wakanda will conclude soon if only to get home and be with her boy again.

“I dey fine o,” he says and when Zainab frowns he looks bashful, chastised even, “I mean, I am doing well. And no you’re not disturbing me. How was your trip?”

Zainab drums her nails on the heavy wood surface of the desk.

“Long. I’m tired, and of course the food was terrible. When will these people put real food on these planes…?”

Ahmad laughs. “You who tell me not to complain because we have it so nice, now see how you complain. What about all of those stories where you tell me ‘Ah ah! Ahmad, when I was just a small girl, we did not have food. We had to share. And sometimes I did not get anything! Now see how you waste food! It’s very disrespectful o!”

Zainab sucks her teeth in mock annoyance, hiding her smile. Ahmad likes to imitate her from time to time, and she lets it slide because it’s funny.

“My son, I am old. I don tire,” she mentally chides herself for the slip, “I deserve nice food at my age. Are you saying your mama does not deserve nice food on long flights? Hey! See how my own son wants to disrespect me o!”

Ahmad laughs.

“Okay, okay! I’ll stop. Mothers are always guilt tripping their children.” He looks off-screen, reaching for something she can’t see. “Have you seen the King yet?”

Zainab hesitates.

“He’s not here.” She says slowly, “Apparently he will be here within the next day or so, so I am just waiting.”

Ahmad sucks his teeth.

“What kind of foolish king is that to not be there to welcome his honored guests? Mama next time you go on one of these trips you must bring me. I promise to do all my schoolwork.”

Zainab lets out a bark of laughter.

“Bring you? Na for where? So you can be sitting in my room, eating, and watching film, and shitting, and sleeping all day while I work? You are not a little boy anymore o, if I bring you, you will be carrying my bags, rubbing my feet,” she counts off on her fingers, “rubbing my back, and running my bath water everyday o.”

Ahmad groans, sinking down into his chair, hand over his eyes. Zainab smiles smugly.

“Fine. Leave me at home to languish by myself. Cruel mother!” He sits up quickly, quick to grin, “I have to finish my work. You know I’m applying to go to one of those American universities.” Zainab nods her approval. Her position will ascertain his success in getting into at least one of them. She prays it is one of the ones the Americans call Ivy League.

“Stay out of trouble, Ahmad,” she warns, “don’t let me hear you have been walking the streets with those hoodlums you call friends. And you better not bring any ashawo into my house. If the guards tell me you have set one toe out of line, I will _deal_ with you, sha?”

Ahmad sighs.

“Yes, mama.” He says obediently, hiding a smile. Zainab grins.

“Good boy. I love you.”

“Love you too, mama. Sleep well.”

The call ends and Zainab feels a little more at ease having spoken to her son. She waits for a while, lingering in the feeling of contentment, and checks her emails. She can hear Ahmad scolding her for still using a Blackberry phone, but the truth is, she likes the ease of the keyboard, and it has less distractions than that thin brick of an iPhone she bought him for his 17th birthday. As she scrolls through emails, deleting the junk, marking as a priority those from within other hierarchies within the government, she sighs and puts her phone away.

The palace is eerily quiet to her. She cannot hear the noise of traffic, of voices, of the hustle and bustle of life in this place, and she wonders not for the first time if it’s normal.

Still drying, Zainab begins typing up a document detailing her trip to report back home. The sun shifts across the room and as it sets, the lighting in the room shifts to accommodate. It is so imperceptible that she barely notices, but when she looks up from her screen, her window is dark and the lighting in the room is soft and incandescent, her eyes adjust comfortably without the usual sting that accompanies too much time spent staring at LED screens. There’s a soft knock at the door.

“Madame Ambassador,” it’s a woman’s voice, “we’ve brought you dinner for the evening. Will you be taking it in your chambers?”

Zainab sighs, sucking her teeth thoughtfully.

“Yes. Bring it in.” She orders and the doors slide open and two servants wheel in a cart laden with covered trays of food.

“The King ordered the chefs to prepare dishes native to Nigeria for your comfort,” one of them said, bowing low, “please do not hesitate to let us know if the food is to your liking or if you’d like anything else.”

Zainab smiles and uncovers one of the trays. There is a gravy bowl filled with _ogbono_ soup, a bowl of pounded yam—fresh from what she can tell, none of that powdered mess—and a platter of fried goat meat. A pitcher of cold _zoborodo_ gleams in the light, and she searches for ice, her brow furrowing.

“We have developed a system of self-cooling technology,” the servant explains, sensing her confusion, “eliminating the need for ice cubes, although those can be provided if you prefer.”

Zainab touches the pitcher. It is ice cold and yet no cubes of ice float within the deep, grape-colored drink. It’s fascinating to say the least.

“How does it know which drinks need to be cold and which don’t?” She asks and the servants exchange a glance.

“It is programmed for over 600 known beverages worldwide,” one explains, “one simply needs to put in the code of the beverage or a rough equivalent, and it will cool or heat accordingly.”

“Fascinating!” Zainab exclaims, her smile wide. Ahmad would love this. He has always been inclined toward the sciences. Wakanda would be a veritable playground to him.

“Is there anything else, Madame Ambassador?” The servant asks and Zainab shakes her head.

“No thank you,” she replies, “I believe I can take it from here.”

The servants bow and leave, as silent and unobtrusive as they came. Zainab realizes she is not as hungry as she believed but decides to try the food anyway. The _ogbono_ is a bit on the watery side, but the flavor is passable. There are lumps in the pounded yam, but she can get around those. She is mostly surprised that no one made the food too salty, which is a common mistake for foreigners attempting Nigerian cuisine. And it could use a lot more _otaburu_ if she has anything to complain about. There’s no bite to the soup, which is a staple of the Yoruba. Still, Zainab eats and is content. The _zobo_ itself is sweet, and she makes a note to request ginger to be added next time. She wonders briefly if they’ll let her take this self-cooling pitcher with her back home. She knows the answer will be no as Wakanda is airtight when it comes to even its simplest tech, and Ahmad would likely take it apart within minutes before she can even enjoy it.

She begins to understand a little of why the kingdom is so stringent on its laws about sharing technology.

Finding nothing else for it, Zainab crawls into bed, groaning at the softness of it. She wants to ask what kind of mattresses are used in these beds, but she suspects the answers are simpler than she thinks, and before she knows it, her eyes are closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations*:
> 
> “Menene ta jira?” One says, “Yawo motocin?” - "What did she expect? Flying cars?"
> 
> “Ka sani cikin labarun duniya na da game da mu. Shi ne kawai da muka kore duka. Wata kila za su daina rokon mu ga fasaha?” - "You know the rumors they have about us. It is just as well we dispel them all. Maybe they will stop begging us for technology."
> 
> * - A note on Hausa. The language has some words that are a rough approximation of what you would say in English, and some that have no equivalent. There are also specialized letters--called diacritic--that shift the pronunciation of certain words and can only be found in the Hausa language. There are also Arabic loan words in Hausa so some of you who speak Arabic might recognize some of them if you attempt to pronounce the words out loud...just to give you a reference for vowel sounds.
> 
> I've cited real locations in Nigeria as well as real foods as well. I would like to link to some of them but like Wakanda, I'm cagey about sharing too much of my culture with the world.


	2. Chapter 2

He has been king-in-name-only for precisely four weeks. Due to the increased hostility between humanity and their enhanced counterparts, he has had to maintain a precarious balance between himself—T’Challa—and the mantle of Black Panther, which until recently, was merely a legendary protector of Wakanda. Now, pictures of him have surfaced in every paper, on every blog, on social media, engaged in combat with the Avengers.

He knows it is mere socialization that puts him on edge of having something so intrinsic to his people put on display and discussed as if anyone could know or understand his motivations, but he cannot help but regret letting vengeance consume him enough to forget that he was a servant to his people and his country first, and the Black Panther second. Wakanda was never under any threat, which is the only time one dons the mantle. No, he had donned it for vengeance’s sake and nothing else.

It shames him that he got bound up in the politics of these _oyinbo_ that call themselves heroes and protectors. All to protect one man. Granted, that man did not murder his father but there are countless unmarked graves and unsolved murders attached to his shadow.

T’Challa cannot understand Captain America’s need to protect him, but he can understand the Bucky’s desire to be frozen once more…until this mess is sorted out.

Even so, he leaves that matter to the _oyinbo_ , and turns his attentions home. He has granted an audience with Nigeria’s ambassador to visit Wakanda and discuss further relations between their nations, and hopefully put the tragedy of Lagos behind them and move forward as allies.

In this world with increasing threats beyond the scope of conventional means, T’Challa knows he’ll need allies in the future. All eyes have turned to Wakanda, and he knows there are some who will seek to exploit this moment of vulnerability, when the nation’s crown changes heads, and a visiting dignitary is granted a rare opportunity to pass within their fortified borders.

As the jet makes its way over the continent, T’Challa tries not to think about the weight of responsibilities that await him. He clings to this moment, suspended in the air, where no one is demanding his attention, and no one is demanding answers. In the cargo hold, a coffin, simplistic but secure, carries his father’s body. When T’Chaka is buried, only then will a coronation take place and T’Challa become king.

Months ago, had anyone told him this, he would have laughed. He had always been content to allow his father the run of the nation, acting only as his right hand, advising him when asked, protecting him when needed. He had been content to merely been _Prince_ T’Challa, knowing that one day, in some far distant future, the crown would pass to him. He had never coveted it, never deeply desired to rule. It was never a question of readiness, no; T’Challa was certain that his lifetime of preparation would assure his rule a just and prosperous one, and that he might have surpassed his father in foreign relations. No, it was a question of complacency. T’challa, in his arrogance, had assumed his father, who was a warrior in his own right, and wore the mantle of the Black Panther, was a timeless man. He had become content in the knowledge that his father would pass in his old age, on Wakandan soil, content and surrounded by friends and family. It is something T’Challa has always expected, and in doing so, knows he was mourning his father long before he was gone.

Still, even all these years of mourning did not prepare him from losing his father so abruptly and so violently, to the vengeance of one madman.

Thinking of those moments makes him clench his fist in anger, and he shut his eyes to stymie the pain. He knows himself…and heartbreak is not something he takes to with any true grace. It is one of the very few lessons T’Chaka never saw fit to teach him. How to deal with the tide of grief when one is alone with their thoughts, when there is no one to fight, when there is no outlet.

His bodyguard, one of the elite Dora Milaje, a woman named Adupè, watches him intently.

“Is there something wrong, _oga_?” She asks, her tone neutral, but T’Challa has learned to read the uncharted text and while she is stoic and cold in public, there is a warmth in her voice that denotes her concern.

“I will be fine once we are home.” He says, dismissively, more toward the stone in his heart than anything else.

* * *

 

His arrival in Wakanda is quiet, on his own orders, because he does not want fanfare surrounding his return from Europe. The people have already been informed of T’Chaka’s death, and all over the city there are the banners of mourning. The hustle and bustle of it is muted under the cover of grief. T’Chaka was beloved of his people, and his son is no different, but T’Challa knows change is not easy. The people have always known him as the suave prince, a capable statesman, diplomat, and more than capable warrior, but none will adjust easily to _King_. It is the way of the world, but they will adjust all the same.

The jet lands in the private terminal not far from the private road leading up into the mountains of the palace. A limousine and a convoy of cars already await him, along with more Dora Milaje. T’Challa sits in the soft leather seats, declining drink and food. He has not had a proper appetite since the incident in Vienna. And the weight of the knowledge that his father’s body lies cold in a coffin in the car just in front of him does not serve to help. Adupè watches and says nothing.

When they arrive at the palace, T’Challa momentarily forgets that his father is dead. For a moment, he is home, safe within his country’s borders, amidst people and folk who look like him, who respect him, and yet…there is a certain emptiness in the palace, a missing piece he will never find again.

The void King T’Chaka has left is wide, incomprehensibly so. But T’Challa does not know how he will fill it, or if he even wants to. He is accustomed to power, but he has the lives of thousands of Wakandans in his hands, and his decisions will either see Wakanda propelled into the future to join the wider world, or maintain his father’s need for reclusiveness and secrecy.

He waves off advisors and their pressing needs for now, citing that they must prepare a funeral for his father. The sooner they bury him, perhaps then he can begin the process of healing.

“The Nigerian ambassador arrived just yesterday, Majesty,” one of his advisors say and T’Challa hesitates.

“When did we arrange for this?” He asks. The advisor’s brow furrow.

“Your father invited Nigerian diplomats to Wakanda just before the incident in Vienna. All has been arranged. She wishes to meet with you at your earliest convenience.”

T’Challa sighs. He has no desire to engage in global politics, not when his country needs to mourn the loss of a titan. Still, duty is duty, and he cannot run from it. He knows if he runs, now, he will shame his father’s legacy, and himself.

“Very well,” he says at last, “inform her that she and I will meet in the morning, and apologize that she has come at a difficult time for Wakanda.” He watches his advisor take notes, but before the man can walk away, stops him.

“No,” T’Challa says, “no. Tell her I’ll meet with her now. She must hear this from my own lips.”

_I’ll not hide behind the protection of bureaucrats and statesmen. My rule begins with me._

“At once, Majesty,” and the advisor is gone, sending a message to the Nigerian ambassador to attend in the throne room.

T’Challa does not sit on the throne when the ambassador is announced, and he tries not to look at it. For much of his life, that throne was occupied by someone far greater than him, and he is not sure he is quite ready to take his place on it.

The doors open and a woman, small in stature, garbed in a grand _boubou_ of stark white with gold embroidery along the collar, stands, flanked by his own Dora Milaje. Her _gele_ is high, elegant and golden, and despite the make-up she wears, he sees the telltale lines of age in her face. A diplomat, yes, but he knows a mother when he sees one.

“Ambassador Aliyu,” T’Challa says and she bows, as is the custom, “be welcome in Wakanda.”

“Your Majesty,” her voice is soft yet resonant, an undertone of command in it, “I am honored for this opportunity. And you have my deepest condolences for your loss. I realize I have come at a difficult time.” T’Challa does not know what he’s looking for in her face. She seems sincere.

“Yes,” he agrees, “you have, but it is also an opportune time, is it not?”

Her eyelids flicker.

“Your Majesty,” she said carefully, “I would not presume to press politics at a time like this.” She glances around, notices how empty the throne room seems to be, and her mask slips. There is sadness there.

“You are not the only one who has known loss,” she tells him, “and while you must put on the face of bravery for your people, know that I come both as diplomat and friend. You and your family will not mourn alone.”

T’Challa clenches his jaw, swallows hard against the surprising lump in his throat. He has forgotten that his sister will be home soon as well. Shuri was always just as reluctant to grieve as he was. But the ambassador is right: they will not mourn alone.

“If you would prefer,” the ambassador says, “I can extend my stay and Nigeria will offer whatever aid it can during this transition.”

He’s offended, she can see it, pride flashing in his eyes like a storm over the land.

“We have endured for thousands of years without the aid of others,” he says, his voice hard, “and we can endure a thousand more.”

The ambassador frowns but is undaunted. A mother indeed.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” she says, “but enduring alone is precisely why I am here, now. Vibranium—your most treasured and guarded resource—was stolen and used to manufacture weapons of incomprehensible destruction. Your father—Allah rest his soul—sought to soothe the rightfully ruffled feathers of the world by sending Wakandan diplomats to our country to ensure all was well.”

“I am well aware of the situation, ambassador, thank you.” T’Challa says harshly.

“I don’t think you are.” She replies, “You think that shutting the world out will solve all of your problems? Sooner or later the world will come knocking at your door…not all of it friendly.” She smiles. “Would you not rather have a friend ready to answer with you than be caught alone?”

T’Challa turns, striding toward the balcony of the throne room overlooking the city. She follows, as do the Dora Milaje.

“Ambassador,” he says, “thousands of years ago, Africa welcomed the world past its borders and look what happened. The West places madmen in positions of power, keeps nations destabilized, bleeds the country dry of resources, enslaves millions, orphans millions more. Is that the kind of world you want Wakanda to open its borders to?”

“It is not that simple, Majesty,” she says, “you cannot assume everyone in the world wishes to do harm. We would not progress otherwise.”

T’Challa snorts. “What do you know of the world, ambassador? When was the last time the world cared about an African nation save for what resources it could provide for them? You think I don’t know the cycle that will be started once I let every greedy politician with an ulterior motive into my lands? You think I don’t know what happened in Zachovia?”

The ambassador sighs, rubbing her temples.

“Yes, we are all aware of the…West’s tendencies for forcing its political agenda into our borders. But my job is to achieve an accord. This is between Nigeria and Wakanda. You may not need us, but I will say that Nigeria could use an ally like Wakanda.”

“Why?” T’Challa asks her. Zainab’s fingers turn the ring on her left hand. She realizes belatedly that one of the diamonds is missing. She should get it replaced.

“Do you really not know?” She asks. T’Challa narrows his eyes and she sighs.

“I love my country, Your Majesty,” she tells him, “probably as much as you love yours. I have lived long enough to see what political instability does to a nation, what it’s still doing to mine in places. I have seen enough political corruption. I have lost family to disease that may not have taken them if we had even the smallest amount of medical and technological advances your country has. My sons…my _son_ would thrive if he were allowed an opportunity to study here and abroad.”

She looks out over the expanse of Wakanda, with its pristine streets and streamlined architecture.

“I want my country to be like this one, where there is more time to spend on intellectual pursuits rather than on hoping and praying NEPA does not take the lights on a whim. I want running water in every village, and the end to rogue terrorist cells plaguing our lands. Your Majesty, I am tired and my country needs friends that aren’t seeking to dip their fingers in our resources.”

T’Challa listens, and understands. He understands better than she probably gives him credit for, because he has heard stories just like hers in the past in various nations around the world.

“Why do you think Wakanda can single-handedly save your country from all of this?”

Zainab sucks her teeth.

“You misunderstand, Majesty. I am not asking you to save my country. I am not asking you for any of your resources. I am merely asking for an opportunity for our countries to…get to know one another.”

T’Challa laughs.

“What part of Nigeria are you from, ambassador?” He asks. It takes Zainab by surprise. She is so used to Western diplomats who consider Nigeria some monolithic nation and only know of one ethnic group for the ones who have actually opened a book or two. It is rare that a foreigner knows to ask _where_ she’s from.

“I was born in Kaduna,” she tells him, her voice gentle, “but we moved around a lot. My father was a doctor and my mother was a school teacher.”

T’Challa can see it in her, the features that mark her as Hausa.

“I apologize for my tone earlier, ambassador,” he says, “it has been a difficult few weeks. Wakanda, of course, welcomes you and your countrymen for your stay, and appreciates your concern. We will resume talks in a more official capacity tomorrow. For now, allow me to let my staff escort you wherever you need to go.”

The ambassador doesn’t move at first, but Adupé and the other Dora Milaje close ranks around T’Challa and he doesn’t move to stop them. Zainab sighs, and bows.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says, “you are most kind.”

When she leaves, escorted by two of the women, T’Challa bows his head.

The void is still there, and he can feel its emptiness at his back where the throne sits, empty and waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On mourning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies or the delay in updates. Fandom was being trash so I had to take a writing break. We're back on schedule and I finally figured out what I wanted to write about.

As a sanctioned statesman, Zainab has attended stately funerals before. She does not mind the solemnity, but there is a certain air of grief hanging over Wakanda, as if the people stand poised on the precipice overlooking a vast abyss. The uncertainty is tangible as she dons her best lace and _gele_ , already pre-wrapped and placed on foam mannequin heads the night before. She does her own make-up, paints her lips, and stares at her reflection. She has never thought that of all the funerals she has attended, how the bereaved must feel.

There is a procession through the city streets, and she rides in her own limo, listening to the primordial drumming going on outside. There is singing, there are flower petals. To Wakanda, death warrants celebration as much as life, as it is merely the beginning of another chapter. Zainab sighs, ignoring the surrounds, feeling agitated. Her talk with T’Challa the night previous has her nerves on edge already, and she hates that she has come at such a vulnerable time.

It does not feel right to ask him to open his borders when that self-same act is why his father is now being paraded to his grave.

“ _Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un._ ” Zainab murmurs, passing her hands over her face once as the procession takes them to what amounts to a temple—or church. She notes the distinct lack of foreign press. The only press present are news crews local to the country and photographers cataloguing for Wakanda’s archives. Even in something as monumental as this, T’Challa will not allow Wakanda’s grief to be present on the world stage. Zainab finds that to be indicative of what to expect when she finally is allowed to engage in diplomatic talks with him later. For now, she is committed to her word, so join Wakanda in their period of mourning, as a representative of her country.

Again, her attention turns to the events that brought her here to begin, and shies from her own thoughts, turning them outward, to the colorful mourning in the streets. Wakandans wed the old traditions with the new in plain sight. Masquerades walk the streets on stilts, adorned in _raffia_ and cowrie shells. Masks carved of ebony obscure their face and bodies, giving them an otherworldly appearance. Zainab notes with a strange warmth that the traditions of Wakanda are not so far from those of her own homeland, and for a moment, she allows herself the immersion.

They exit their vehicles, and Zainab notes again that she is once more escorted by a pair of dour-looking Dora Milaje. This time, they do not cluck in Hausa and gossip. Instead, she is taken inside the temple proper and seated with her entourage, small as it is. The royal family of Wakanda sits in the front pews of the temple, and Zainab lays eyes on T’Challa’s sister for the first time. Her clothes are immaculate, cut from the traditional cloth but shaped in a modern form. Her face is obscured by large sunglasses, and she sits as erect as if she is on a throne. Zainab heaves a sigh and watches as the funeral is carried out with solemnity.

The funeral lasts three hours, and T’Challa gives a speech to commemorate his father and the efforts he strived for toward peace with other African nations.

“It was his hope,” T’Challa says, and Zainab can see the grief swimming beneath the surface, raw and hungry, scratching at the thickened glass of his calm, “that eventually Wakanda could finally step out onto the world stage. It is my hope that I am even half the man that he was.”

Zainab sees it in him, the earnestness of a young boy standing in his father’s shadow. For how long was he merely _Prince_ T’Challa of Wakanda? For how long did the weight of responsibility feel light so long as his father was there to help shoulder it? Zainab cannot imagine the immense loneliness he must feel, to now shoulder an entire kingdom upon his shoulders. To whom will he look to for guidance?

She realizes, in that moment, that a political opportunity presents itself, and regards it with dawning horror.

As the funeral procession exits the temple, Zainab is told that she will be taken back to the palace.

“You are to avail yourself to whatever you wish,” one of the Dora Milaje tell her, “when the King is ready, he will summon you to the audience chamber.”

Zainab does not question this, although she wants to. It seems she will be made to wait again, but she will be given leave to roam the palace as she wishes, like some wealthy and privileged ghost.

As the limo door closes and the limo pulls off to head back to the palace, Zainab sucks her teeth in one long note of annoyance.

“ _Mschewwwwwwwww_.”

* * *

Later, she Skypes with Ahmad, who looks as if he is already on his way to bed.

“Sorry o.” She says to him, “Am I disturbing you?” Ahmad stifles a yawn behind his arm, blinking slowly. The room around him is dark, and the computer screen casts a grainy and digital glow along his dark face. His movements are slow and choppy, and Zainab makes a note to ask T’Challa how they maintain high speed internet in their country.

“No, I was just reading,” Ahmad says groggily.

“Mschew,” Zainab hisses, “what kind of book are you reading that makes you yawn like walrus in my face?”

Ahmad laughs despite himself, his teeth stark against his face, made more so by the darkness in the room around him.

“It was just a few paragraphs, mama. Is everything alright? Why are you all dressed up?”

Zainab hesitates, but then decides there is no harm in telling her son.

“They had a state funeral for the king today.” She says and Ahmad is wide awake.

“What? The one you were supposed to meet?”

“Mm.” Zainab says, “But King T’Challa—his son—is here. The duties pass to him. I don’t know how this thing will go or how long it will last. Things are very shaky at the moment and I do not want to risk ruining our chances of making amends. You know the entire world is watching Naija, now after what happened with those stupid Avengers.”

Ahmad hisses, sucks his teeth. Neither bear any love for the group of self-proclaimed heroes.

“Those _oyinbo_ do more damage than they fix. Did you see they destroyed an entire airport just fighting each other? Who is going to pay for that?”

Zainab huffs. “You know they have that rich scientist? The one who calls himself Iron Man. What kind of name is that? Na Money Man be that one o.”

Ahmad laughs.

“True. So what do you think will happen? I mean, if things go well, that is?”

Zainab takes comfort in discussing politics with her son. He is honest, has no ulterior motives, and only wants the best for her and the country she serves. If she could trust the government not to corrupt him, she would push him to become a politician himself. But his honesty is a rare jewel in a sea of worthless stone lies. She will preserve it at all costs.

“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully, “I just know there are going to be a lot of anger Europeans criticizing Wakanda for not sharing.”

“These politicians you work with sound like small pikin.” Ahmad snorts, “Na by force?”

Zainab shrugs. “You know how these white men are. They come to Africa and only see what they can take from the ground, what they can build and charge for, and how they can make money touring our villages and pretending to feed our hungry.”

Ahmad shakes his head.

“But what can Wakanda do for Naija?” He asks.

 _Everything_. Zainab wants to say. _But we have to be careful how we ask_.

“I want to start small,” Zainab says, “the last thing we need is more things that can spill blood. We have enough violence with our own weapons. We do not need to advance that one. I will ask him about agriculture, maybe. Wakanda is self-sustaining. They barely import anything, so it will be hard to negotiate trade.”

Ahmad leans back in his chair, and his bright yellow shirt with the MTN logo is visible.

“So the real question is: what do you offer to the country that has everything?”

Zainab unhooks her earrings as she continues.

“That’s a good question,” she agrees, “what can we give to Wakanda that they don’t already have? I have already extended Naija’s hand in friendship. If and when Wakanda decides to step out into the light with the rest of us, they will need friends.”

Ahmad spins in his chair idly.

“And don’t forget, you are going to have the eyes of others on us too. The minute Wakanda shakes your hand and says yes, all of Europe will rise up and cry o. You better be prepared for the flood of the tears.”

Zainab laughs.

“Let us let the president deal with that nonsense. I will just make sure T’Challa shakes my hand.”

Ahmad leans close to the camera, and suddenly he’s in sharp focus, before blurring and pixeling out again.

“Those bodyguards he has,” he says slyly, “the ones that are built like supermodels. Are they there?”

Zainab pauses in wiping her makeup from her face.

“Are you trying to get married?” She asks.

“No!” Ahmad says quickly. Zainab smirks.

“Are you sure? Because it is the only reason I can think of that you would be asking about one of those warrior women. They are not for you.”

Ahmad fidgets in his chair.

“I know. It’s just…I saw one on TV after the incident in Vienna and…na wa o. Mama are those the ones escorting you? Ahbeg make you na send one to escort me everywhere.”

Zainab sucks her teeth.

“Foolish boy. The only place you need to be escorted to is the masjid. Have you been praying?”

Ahmad is silent. Zainab is quiet, and focuses the full of her attention on him.

“You know he would want you to.” Ahmad looks away, his face sullen. The wound is still too raw, too deep.

Zainab sighs.

“Alright, I will not keep you. I know you have school in the morning.” She shifts the subject, “Sleep well, my darling.”

“Goodnight.” Ahmad mumbles, his voice warbled and distorted.

The call ends, and Zainab stares at the screen a moment longer. One day she’ll be able to talk about it without the tightness in her chest. One day she’ll be able to grieve properly. Until then, she retreats, showering and changing and summoning the servants to prepare supper.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night, and she curses herself for opening and old wound, so she does the only thing she can think of: she bleeds out.

Her phone still has it, the clip, jostling and and brief, the only moments of him that are recent.

She watches it over and over, tears silent and hot moistening her pillow. Her fingers curls around the phone, squeezing tight, trying to imagine she’s holding his hand.

_Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So by now you can probably guess what's happening. If not, then stay tuned.


End file.
